Among the smooth and polished, it is easy to be one of them.
Covering faults, buffering blemishes,
Carving away the rough edges of your being,
Cutting away at all the barnacles attached to your hide,
Blanketing yourself with falsities and bling.
Your smoothness doesn’t impress me, neither your shine. For your existence is just the same as any other cut rock. Unoriginal, fake.
Rare are the ones who refuse to be cut, letting alone their unique, rough dips and crevices to be welcoming bosoms for comforting hearts and minds; high above the slippery physiognomies of flattery, and flirtations. Within each hidden nook, and dusty fold is a mysterious story, of strength and beauty.
Those uncut, untouched rocks are the rarest kind.
So are those people. Almost sacred.